Lachlan MacKintosh
Warrior by Birth, Scholar by Choice Lachlan was born as the heir to the chief of the MacKintoshes, a small clan of wandering warriors. He was raised to fight with the fury that is the highland way, and made a name for himself in many battles against vicious foes. His uncle, jealous of Lachlan's birthright, overthrew his father and attempted to murder, him but he escaped, setting off on his own to see the world. While fleeing, he came upon a group of noble strangers bearing a strange symbol. They introduced themselves as the Order of Antioch, and welcomed him, giving him food and shelter. Eventually, they welcomed him into their ranks and taught him a more stalwart and methodical fighting style, creating a warrior with the will to overcome his wild nature to fight with patience and precision, but with the fierceness and tenacity of a highlander. As he continued to rise through the ranks of Antioch, he was given the title of Fourth Guardian of Fury, and has been sent as an emissary across the sea to the land of Lancerus, to find noble warriors with exotic fighting styles to treat with. Sons of Gildor 1: Prologue It was August 1016, in the Fourth age, when a dark haired young warrior first entered the gates of Leva Adium. He was dressed in black, with decorations of red adorning the edges of his otherwise plain garb. Over his undergarments he wore chain mail, belted at the waist, and a tabard emblazoned with a golden symbol, foreign to all who saw it. His name was Lachlan, and he belonged to an order of warriors called Antioch, but he was far, far from home. There had been a call for mercenaries to fight for Nashuss Khal in the war for Gildor, Lachlan, being new to the land of Lancerus and eager to wet his blade once again, decided to answer it. For the first few months, he was relatively satisfied, but a skirmish here and quelling a riot there soon grew tiresome. He longed for the glory of true battle. His dissatisfaction came to a peak when the leaders of the city saw fit to ban the carrying of weapons in the city. “This is why the steward’s days in power are numbered,” He thought, “he is breeding a city of weaklings who must trust in their gods and their walls to protect them. My faith is in my steel, my mind, and my arm, they will deliver me from my foes.” It seemed his chance for glory had finally arrived when in the early months of 1017, when he and the mercenary company he was with were called before their commander for a mission outside of the city. As the group of mercenaries mingled with the already present Gildorian soldiers, the commander, Wolf Knight ser Olin Trevon, began to speak: “There have been reports of patrols being raided along the borders of Westrun Forest. If they are to be believed, what has been left of the patrols is a grisly sight. Bodies eaten, unrecognizable. We believe that some horror may have made the trek across the mountains from Rhivic. As the Wolf Knights and most of our standing army are being held in the city in case of an attack by any of the steward’s enemies, we are sending you, as well as a small company of soldiers, and myself, to investigate and eliminate this threat. We also cannot spare enough supplies to properly outfit us for the journey, so we will be stopping at villages along the way to collect supplies in tribute from the locals.” Within the day, the small force was prepared and ready to ride for the forest. They made good time in their march to the forests edge, but as the ser Olin had predicted, supplies started to run short. The first time the army stopped to gather “tribute” from a village went well. It was closer to the capital, so the people were more willing to give to help the army along. As the journey continued, however, people got less and less enthusiastic about their hard earned supplies being taken. People who refused to give up their supplies were beaten at first, but as the hunt for whatever had taken the patrols went on fruitlessly, soldiers became anxious for home. The first time a dissenter was put to the sword it was just a single ruthless mercenary, but as time went on even the Gildorian soldiers began to partake in the senseless murders. The more he saw, the more it was cemented in Lachlan’s mind that this would be his last mission serving in the steward’s army. If he made it back, he would leave the city and find somewhere else to sell his sword, IF he made it back. 2: Death Walks the Forest Winter in the woods was cold, so cold. Weeks of searching for whatever was hitting the patrols yielded no solid evidence. A few bodies here and there, but always those of Gildorian soldiers. Not once did we find evidence of local peasants being attacked by whatever it was. Also, the soldiers didn’t appear to have been mauled, they were eaten yes, but there were also signs of battle, sword cuts, broken arrows. Ser Olin began to grow suspicious. Was there a peasant uprising beginning? Was food really so scarce in the winter that the peasants had resorted to rebellion AND cannibalism? When they arrived at the next village he immediately had the village elders brought before him. Three peasants: an older man, an ancient woman, and her son, a strapping middle aged man. As they were thrown to their knees in front of the whole camp, the commander began to speak. “Who is killing my men?” “We know nothing of war here, we are just humble villagers”, said the old man. Ser Olin rose and slowly walked towards the old man. In a flash his sword was drawn and the gleam of steel startled all onlookers. The young man bristled and his mother cowered as the old man slumped, his head rolling between them. “Do you think I am an idiot? I have seen scores of Gildorians lying dead, and not one of you. If it wasn’t you, you at least know something. Now I’ll ask again. Who. Is killing. My fucking. Men?” “We won’t tell you anything, you are a sorry excuse for a knight, killing an old man”, the younger man defiantly stated, pushing against the men holding him down. As the commander stepped towards him, raising his sword, the man’s bravado was betrayed by the fear in his eyes. “If that’s how you want to do this, there are plenty more villages to visit, elders to question—“ “Wait!” sighed the old woman, defeated. “I will tell you what you want to know, just spare my son, spare our village. Death waits in the forest for any who follow the false king Nashuss, and it bears the name Whitefang.” “I see,” said ser Olin. He began barking orders to his men: “Tie these two to a building then burn the village. Leave none alive. Its probably just some young idealistic idiots hoping to become ‘heroes’ by invoking the name of a terrorist. Whoever they are, I’m willing to bet that this will make them come out of hiding soon enough.” Lachlan watched all of this and began to seethe, “I understand the horrors of war but this is too much. These people are innocents.” But, there was nothing he could do, just watch in disgust and horror as the village burned. 3. Blood in the Snow As brutal as the solution was, ser Olin was right. It was less than a day before our scouts reported an enemy force approaching, larger than our own. When he heard the news, the commander swore and began to address the troops: “In this weather, there is no retreat. Although they possess larger numbers we have the remains of this village, which will work as makeshift fortifications. I want you to start building a palisade, make sure they have to go down the main road to assault our forces in the town square. Mercenaries, you will be our first defense, blocking the road. Myself and the soldiers will hold the square and provide archer cover.” The work was done quickly, and just in time, because as the last plank was being laid, the lookout called out his sighting of the enemy. Lachlan readied his shield as the rest of the mercenaries did the same. From the enemy line they heard an uproarious battlecry: “DARSHIAAAAAAA!” And the battle was underway. As the first wave of enemy combatants attacked, it was clear that the opponents were not the most skilled. Obviously they had just recently began fighting, and had not mastered the art in any way. The mercenaries took light casualties, and the defenses were all but destroyed, but the enemy force was devastated. Lachlan fought fiercely, dodging spear thrusts, cutting arms, legs, and exposed necks. As soon as the fighting had begun, it was over. “See boys, I was right, just a bunch of peasants playing at being rebels!” A cheer rose in response to the ser Olin’s exclamation, but quickly died as the soldiers saw what was coming from the tree line. A large force of fighters, clearly not the group of amateurs they had just dispatched. The standards they carried bore the sigil of Whitefang. All of a sudden, it became clear to Lachlan what had happened. These poor peasants were simply residents of neighboring villages. By burning this one village, the commander had caused every abled bodied man from every village in the forest to rally to Darshia’s cause, and they had come seeking revenge. Now, with their defenses destroyed, the Gildorian forces were in trouble. The second wave didn’t bother with a battle cry, they just strode forward steadily and confidently, like wolves into a herd of sheep. Lachlan fought valiantly, watching his fellow mercenaries get cut down left and right. He swung his sword as quickly as he could, challenging fighter after fighter, and they all fell before him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw, or thought he saw, a shirtless man clad in rags, wielding a spear with a speed and tenacity that frightened him. In his off hand he carried a strange curved dagger, and he smiled like a dervish with what could only be described as pure glee. Lachlan made a note of the strange fighter and went back to fighting. A cry jolted him out of his battle trance: “Fall back! Protect the town square!” As he looked around, he saw that he was the last of the mercenaries standing in the road, and the enemy was quickly approaching. He fell back to the square and assessed the remaining friendly troops. What he saw made his heart sink. In the square, only a handful of soldiers remained, all standing in a crescent defending the ser Olin. “What is your name, sellsword? You fight well for a lowborn such as yourself.” “Lachlan is my name, and where I’m from I am just as much a knight as you.” “Ah all bow to ser Lachlan now men, we are in the midst of a true noble”, said ser Olin, his face smug. “If we survive this I’m going to enjoy killing you, oh slayer of unarmed geriatrics”, said Lachlan, matching his smugness, and watching the humor drain from his face. Having wasted all the time the enemy had given them to say their final prayers, they readied themselves for one last battle. Coming forward to greet them was a line of soldiers, led by the shirtless madman. He grinned wide and lowered his spear towards them “I will eat well tonight”, he said, and something told Lachlan he wouldn’t need to leave the battlefield to do so. The enemy charged, and one by one, Lachlan’s friendly soldiers began to fall, until it was just him and ser Olin standing against a force they couldn’t hope to defeat alone. “I hope you’re ready to die ser Lachlan, what foreign gods await you?” “The goddess of steel will greet me with open arms for my service in battle, what judgement awaits you Ser Olin, Burner of Barns?” Before he could answer, ser Odin fell, skewered by a savage thrust from the wildman’s spear. Then there were only two. The man beckoned for the troops around him to stay back, he had decided that this last warrior belonged to him. “I am Banan of Soa. You are a powerful foe, I will absorb your power when you fall” “Ugh, okay” And the battle was begun. Before Lachlan could charge in Banan thrust towards his legs with his spear. The blow glanced off of Lachan’s greaves as he charged headlong past the Soan’s reach. He hacked relentlessly with his sword, but with lightning speed Banan blocked every blow. Banan looked down at his spear, and realized he was now holding a pretty nice baton. Lachlan’s blows had been so fierce that he had shorn the weapon in two. He blocked one last strike with the useless haft and managed to swing his curved dagger around Lachlan’s shield striking his shield arm. His bracers held, but the shock of the blow caused him to drop his shield, he was now defenseless. Or so Banan thought… He lunged forward, attempting to cleave into Lachlan’s ribs with a mighty swing of his curved dagger, but looked down in shock as his weapon snapped on Lachlan’s chain shirt. Lachlan grunted in pain from the blow, and started to swing downward, but Banan caught his arm, managing to send the sword flying, and they both tumbled to the ground, locked in an embrace of death. “How many of your fights end like this” Lachlan jested. “More than you’d think, do you always treat your women this well?” “Fighting, fucking, two sides of the same sweaty coin really” “I like your style, I hate to kill you” “You’re not bad yourself, I hate to die” “Banan, stand down!” A voice rang out from the crowd. The crowd parted and a handsome man stepped into view. What is your name, knight? You have fought with the ferocity of a demon today.” “Lachlan is my name, and I am no knight, at least not in Gildor. “Well I will call you ser Lachlan anyway, not-a-knight. I am Darshia Whitefang.” “I swore to kill the last man to call me that, but I like it much more coming from you for some reason.” “I don’t know if it would insult your honor ser Lachlan, but I could use men of your talents on my side in the coming battle for Leva Adium. My scouts reported someone of your description that was here during the burning of the village that slinked away, refusing to take part. I believe it was you, and it shows that you may have the heart to serve me, as well as the prowess.” “I believe that lack of honor is an invention the losing side uses to justify their defeat. As to your offer, I have been regretting selling my sword to Nashuss more and more since he disarmed the people of Leva Adium. A man should have the ability and right to defend himself and his own, without having to bend to the will of gods and kings.” “I wholeheartedly agree, welcome to the service of the true king of Gildor, ser Lachlan.” “Aww, I guess that serving by your side will be almost as good as feeding on you, you will be a fine drinking companion.” Interjected Bannon. “Wait, what?” = Category:Biographies Category:Recruit Category:Journeyman Category:Disciple Category:Sojourner